They stopped at a stall of embroidered linens. The shopkeeper’s voice sang like a bell, praising the fabric’s softness and foreign thread. Emma’s eyes lingered for a heartbeat on the fabric. The weave was exquisite, shimring faintly in the light, but then she shook her head and moved on.
Elias frowned. "You liked that one."
"We need new towels, not tablecloths," she replied briskly, leading him toward the next stall. "Towels tear faster."
"We don’t need towels," Elias muttered under his breath. "We need you to stop calling everything a need."
Emma turned to him, arching a brow. "Do you prefer I call it a ’want’? Because that’s what gets people broke."
He sighed. She had a way of sounding so practical that he almost forgot how beautiful she looked doing it. A stray curl brushed her cheek as she reached for a simple earthenware pot. Not a painted one, not the lovely blue-glazed kind, but just plain, sturdy clay.
"That one?" Elias asked, deadpan. "Out of all these?"
"It’s durable," she said, inspecting the rim for cracks.
"It’s dull."
"It’s useful."
"I’m buying you sothing pretty," he declared.
"You’re not."
"I am. You deserve it."
She huffed, her lips twitching at the corners. "I deserve a roof that doesn’t leak, Elias."
He wanted to laugh, wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her she deserved silk dresses and moonlight hairpins and a ho ten tis this size. But instead, he followed her from stall to stall, watching her pick things for them: a ladle, a broom, thread for nding... always saying we need this or our pan is wearing out.
When they passed a jewelry stand, she paused. The necklaces glittered like caught sunlight. Elias waited, hopeful. But Emma only smiled wistfully and walked on.
"Emma," he called after her, "you never let buy you anything."
She turned with that sa gentle mischief in her eyes. "You already did. You bought a flower garden. That’s more expensive than gold."
He stared at her for a long mont. This woman who could make a market trip feel like a blessing and a war.
The market was still alive with evening chatter when Emma finally sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. Her basket was overflowing with flour, thread, candles, and all the "essentials" she insisted they needed. Not a single indulgence. Not even a ribbon.
Elias carried the heavier sacks in silence, his jaw set. The way she worried about every coin made sothing ache in him; it was not pity, but guilt. He owed her more than this life of asuring expenses and rationing dreams.
At the flower stall, she paused. The air was thick with jasmine and marigold. Elias saw her eyes linger, that sa faint yearning she tried to hide behind practicality.
"Pick one," he said.
She shook her head. "They’ll wilt by morning. And I already have flowers, rember?"
"So? You don’t have jasmine! And what if they wilt? I’ll buy more tomorrow."
"That’s wasteful," she murmured, turning away.
He smiled faintly. "Emma, do you know what’s more wasteful than flowers?"
She looked back at him, puzzled.
"Ti," he said. "And I’ve wasted enough of it not telling you the truth."
Her brow furrowed. "What truth?"
He set the sacks down, exhaling slowly. The noise of the market seed to dull around them. Elias reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small, folded parcel, tied with a simple red thread.
"I wanted to give this to you properly," he said. "Not in a city corner. But...maybe this is proper..."
He pressed the small parcel into her palm. Inside lay an old, simple silver ring — worn, but polished until it glead faintly in the fading light. It wasn’t grand or new, but it was real, and unmistakably precious.
Emma’s breath caught. "Elias..."
"It’s yours," he said softly. "It’s been yours."
She blinked, confusion flickering into disbelief. "What do you an?"
Elias rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward, as though he’d just realized the gravity of what he’d done. "I’ve been aning to give it to you properly — before I... before I confessed you as my wife." He looked away, almost sheepish. "Sir Aldric was witness. A priest might not have bound us, and you deserve that, but... we are married, Emma. I’m sorry I did it without—"
Before he could finish, Emma turned and walked away.
"Emma!" Elias called, startled. He stumbled after her, juggling all the things she’d left behind.
By the ti they reached the narrow lane where their small house stood, Elias was sweating in panic. His heart pounded harder than it had in battle.
"Emma, please, just let explai—"
"You’re saying we’re married. Today?" she interrupted, her voice dangerously calm.
His hands trembled as he fumbled with the key. "Yes," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "Today."
She stared at him for a long second, her expression unreadable, and then pushed him gently aside. The door creaked open, and before he could say another word, she stepped inside and shut it firmly in his face.
Elias stood there for a full minute, blinking at the wooden door. Then he slowly sat down on the doorstep, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.
"Well done, Elias," he muttered under his breath. "Married without telling the bride. Brilliant."
He sighed and leaned back against the wall. The sound of pots clinking ca from inside. Sothing was baking, the faint sll of bread drifted through the cracks of the old door. He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.
After what felt like an eternity, the latch clicked.
The door opened just enough for her voice to slip through.
"Get inside and clean yourself up."
Elias froze. Then, cautiously, he peeked through the gap.
She was there, her arms crossed, lips pressed together, eyes bright with sothing halfway between fury and fondness.
"Yes, ma’am," he said quickly, standing at attention.
"Don’t ’ma’am’ , husband," she muttered, stepping aside.
And though she turned away, Elias swore he saw the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
He went to the small partition they’d set up as a bath area — a curtain strung across a corner, a basin of warm water, and a small bar of soap Emma always insisted slled like "a new start."He scrubbed his face, the back of his neck, his hands, trying to wash away the panic that still lingered.
When he stepped out, toweling his hair dry, he froze.
Emma was standing in the middle of the room, the light from the window falling over her like soft gold. She wore that dress, the one from the ball. The one he’d thought she’d packed away forever.
His breath caught.
The delicate fabric shimred faintly and hugged her like it had been made for her alone. Her cheeks were pink, not from rouge, but from sothing far warr, far more real.
Elias blinked, unsure if he was still breathing."Emma...?" he managed, voice hoarse.
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